


When the Dead Call

by firefright



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Gen, Ghosts, Lost Days - Freeform, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-02-21 15:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18705049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright
Summary: Jason returns from the grave with the uncanny ability to see ghosts everywhere he goes, and unfortunately for him, the dead don't care about his carefully laid plans for Bruce and Gotham.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skalidra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/gifts).



> Hi all! This is a late gift written as reward for my dear Skalidra completing NaNoWriMo back in November. She gave me the prompt of Jason coming back from the dead able to see ghosts or with some other supernatural ability, and naturally my imagination ran wild. Hope you all enjoy!

Jason came back wrong.

It is not something he understands immediately, wrapped up as he is during those first few months after his baptism in the Lazarus Pit in a haze of rage, grief and cold, calculated ambition. Nothing occupies his thoughts more than vengeance; the desire to see Bruce pay for the crime of forgetting him. For letting his killer walk free to kill again, in an endless cycle of pain and misery that scratches dully at the inside of Jason’s skull every time he’s reminded of it.

Scratch _. I thought you loved me._ Scratch. _I thought I’d be the last one you ever let him kill._

So what does it matter to him, then, that there’s always a chill in his spine? That any hot drink he picks up and holds in his hand always cools quicker than it rightly should. That his skin, pale even before he died, is now white to the point that the veins under it stand out all the brighter thanks to its increased translucency.

He is hurt and he is wounded. Everything else is inconsequential.

But then comes Egon. Then comes Germany, the snow, and the children. The return of his empathy. His rush to once again fight injustice rather than simply seek vengeance alone.

Then come the ghosts.

He thinks he’s dreaming the first time he sees one, lying on the bed in the guest bedroom of his current teacher’s house and half-asleep. His phone screen is the only light in the room as he mindlessly thumbs through a dozen different news reports on a dozen different websites. At least until, with a strange, hitherto unknown creaking sound, the door swings open.

Jason looks up, expecting to see his teacher. For what at this hour, he doesn’t know. But instead, he’s shocked to find himself staring into the eyes of a little girl, perhaps six or seven, wearing a pair of pale pink pyjamas and clutching a battered teddy bear against her chest.

The man whose house he’s staying in doesn’t have children, Jason is sure of that much. He would have noticed if he had, through the silent walls of the home. No children. Not even any pictures of children. So where then, has this little girl come from?

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice slow and sleep-addled even as he attempts to rouse himself, “What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t answer. Just continues to stare at him, her blue eyes huge and baleful in the darkness.

“My name’s Jason,” he tries again, wondering what it is he could possibly have done to earn such a look, “What’s yours?”

Nothing.

Concerned, Jason starts to sit up, and that’s when she takes a step back. That’s when the teddy bear, its head until now lodged up under her chin, falls down, revealing the ruined mess of her throat.

_Red._

In the space of a second, his back has hit the wall, as Jason catapults from being almost asleep to wide awake. His mouth is open in horror, his heart beating hard in an absurd attempt to hammer its way out of his chest, and when he can finally bring himself to look back at the door again…

He blinks, chest still heaving.

She’s gone, as if she was never even there.

“A dream,” he mutters to himself, despite how his instincts are screaming otherwise. “Just a dream. You were dreaming.”

Lurching up from the bed, he crosses to the small bathroom that’s his to use while he’s staying here and splashes cold water onto his face. With the light on, the horror of what he’d just seen seems to fade a little, and his assertion to himself that what he saw was only a figment of his own imagination rings a little more true.

He’s seen so much death in his life. So many people hurt in the worst ways. Of course it makes sense that his subconscious mind would chew those memories up and regurgitate them back out on occasion while he’s sleeping. At least this time, it hadn’t been one of the other, more frequent nightmares he has. The ones about the Pit, and grave dirt raining down on him. He can deal with this, just like he deals with everything else.

He can deal.

Except that’s not the only occasion on which Jason sees her. And the next time, there’s no way he can write off her presence as a simple dream.

She’s there in the doorway as he and his teacher grapple in the dojo, causing Jason to slip and fall from his feet, as well as earn himself a scolding. As he fixes himself a cup of tea in the kitchen, or tries to focus on the pages of a book. Her appearances grow ever more frequent the longer he stays in the house, and his subsequent attempts to ignore her, ever less successful.

“Just ignore it,” he mutters to himself, the sixth time she shows up. “It’s not real. Just a figment of your imagination. Not real.”

Maybe, if he told Talia about it, she would have some explanation to give. That seeing visions is a latent effect of going into the Pit, but somehow Jason doesn’t think so. Most likely, he would just write himself off as even more unhinged in her eyes than he already is, and the last thing he wants to do is give her extra cause to try and restrain him.

He just… he can’t remember ever even seeing a little girl exactly like this one before in his life. The delicate features of her face, the specific pyjamas she wears, and the bear most of all. There’s no true ring of familiarity there, and Jason can’t for the second life of him work out why his mind insists on conjuring up the image of her again and again wherever he goes.

Finally, on the tenth occasion she flickers into existence around him, he’s had enough.

It’s been a long day. Jason’s teacher had woken him up at the crack of dawn to run drills around the grounds, before dragging him into the dojo for some long, extended sparring practice. He hasn’t slept enough. Hasn’t eaten properly either the last few days, preoccupied as he is by the little spectre haunting the edges of his vision. She’s appeared twice to him already today, always horrifying and accusing in her gaze.

“What?!” he snaps at her now, head in his hands as he sits on the edge of his bed, fighting his exhaustion, “What is it, huh? What the fuck do you want from me?!”

At the question, her head cocks, and her expression changes for the first time since he started seeing her. From angry to considerate. Then, as if she’s been waiting for him to ask all this time, one tiny hand reaches out and unmistakably waves him closer.

Jason blinks. That… that is unexpected.

He doesn’t move, not right away. Not until she impatiently does it again, then points down the hallway outside the door.

“I’m going crazy,” he mutters to himself, getting stiffly up onto his feet, “The Pit drove me crazy.” But still he moves towards her, and once she seems confident that he’s going to keep following her, the little girl runs on light, ghostly feet ahead of him.

Jason shivers as they move through the house. No lights are on. His teacher is already asleep, so there’s no one to see or hear as he makes his unsteady way after her, up to a door he’s never had cause to pay attention to before, then down into the basement.

Here, his shivering worsens. Jason can feel the cold like a tangible thing, icing the inside of his lungs and freeing his joints as he follows the little girl deeper. The basement looks ill-used, filled with junk and cobwebs. He wonders what on earth could have compelled her (or the madness of his brain) to lead him down here.

Then she stops, seeming half-translucent in the dim light that filters in from the basement’s single tiny window, and points a slender finger towards a safe sitting in the corner.

“What?” Jason blinks, letting fly the first words that come to mind, “You want me to open it?”

She nods.

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Shaking his head, he creeps closer to examine the safe. It’s old, with the classic, twisting lock that’s instantly recognisable to anyone who’s ever watched a movie or even a cartoon. “Well, I hope you know, whatever you are, that I left my safe cracking tools at home.”

Though maybe if he can find a crowbar and a hammer among all the detritus here…

Jason’s next breath leaves his lungs in a frigid cloud. He looks up, irritated at the source, only to find her now pointing at the ground.

Directly under where a shaft of moonlight hits the dust covered floor, is a series of numbers, written in a round, childish scrawl.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, hands shaking now, “I guess that’ll do instead.”

Jason breathes on his fingers to try and steady them, but the blasts feel like ice and only make the numbing sensation creeping through his body worse rather than better.

 _Discipline,_ he thinks instead, calling to mind other lessons he’s picked up over the years, _Calm_.

He can do this.

Dearly hoping that the safe isn’t alarmed, just in case the numbers — alongside everything else he’s seeing — do turn out to be just one big hallucination, Jason carefully inputs the unlocking code. Every click of a bolt has his heart jumping, his eyes twitching. He can feel the weight of the girl’s gaze on him at every turn. Every drop of her blood hitting the floor, the pounding of her fists against steel, and her screams piercing—

He lurches back just as the final lock clicks open, mouth open in a silent cry at the horror of what he’s seeing.

The same pink pyjamas, though now worn and faded. The bear, its fur stiff from dried blood. Skin that should have been soft and peach warm, now sallow and grey from shrinking down tight to stretch across bone.

The open mess of a throat that had taken the killing blow.

The spectre is gone from his vision, replaced now by the dried out corpse, but he can still _feel_ her whipping against the back of his skull. Her terror, her confusion, and then her anger, as the walls pinned her down and refused her soul the ability to run from the site of her death.

Jason feels all of it. The years of imprisonment, watching her killer live his life without suspicion or penalty for what he’d done to her. Her anger at all the students who came to him to learn his deadly art, and did not see the truth of his nature or know her suffering.

Until, that is, Jason came along.

His body trembles. His throat clamps. Bile burns up the back of it, and Jason… Jason feels the rage burn up inside of him, then. Hers, as well as his own.

It takes a few tries for him to stagger back up to his feet again. To find the strength to stand. But he doesn’t waver anymore, nor question.

Now, he knows exactly what he has to do.

On top of a slanted shelf sits a hammer. He takes it, weighs it in his hand for a moment. Then, blood roaring through his ears, starts the long walk back upstairs.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t appear to him again afterwards. But standing on the crest of the hill behind the house, Jason feels a weight lift from his shoulders as he watches the bright blue of police sirens approach down the distant road.

It had been tempting just to burn it. Burn the whole thing, right to the ground, but in the end he hadn’t.

Whoever the girl was, she deserved better than that. The chance to be identified, buried and mourned by those who loved her. And maybe by doing so, Jason’s actions in avenging her death will give more than one person closure tonight.

Turning away from the scene, he walks deeper into the woods and waits for Talia to call him.

 

* * *

 

She’s angry, of course, but then understanding when he tells her of the body he’d found in the safe in the basement. Also, thankfully, she doesn’t ask him exactly how he came to make that discovery, only that he’s sure he didn’t leave any evidence of his presence behind, before making the necessary arrangements for him to go meet his next tutor and sending him on his way.

Jason hopes that will be the end of it. Of him seeing ghosts or whatever the hell she was, but of course it’s not. In fact, from there, his visions only get _worse_.

He’s walking past a graveyard in Paris when a woman in Victorian mourning clothes sweeps across the street in front of him, only to then walk directly through the wall of a nearby mausoleum. In a sleepy little village in Spain, a teenage boy in ill-fitting military fatigues paces fitfully around the interior of the cafe Jason had stopped to get something to eat in with half his guts spilling out of a tear in his jacket, unseen by anyone else but him. Then, on the coast of Denmark, Jason spots what he thinks might have been an actual viking staring back at him, eyes dark and haunting like it’s _his_ personal fault he hadn’t reached the gates of Valhalla. Before later still, in a otherwise quiet chalet in Switzerland, something unseen takes to rattling the windows of his bedroom at night, as well as occasionally tugging at his clothes and hair until finally Jason can’t stand it anymore and flees the house with no explanation given to either his teacher there or Talia.

And throughout it all, he’s cold. God, he’s so cold. He realises it now, the ever present chill that sits in his bones. Whole piles of blankets fail to keep him warm at night, and people jump when he shakes their hands before laughing it off awkwardly (but in the aftermath Jason can always feel them staring at his back, knowing that saying he has poor circulation cannot possibly explain it).

He starts to feel like he’s going crazy again. Barely sleeping and constantly haunted by what he can’t see or explain. There’s no one he can risk turning to for help either. No one he can ask to make it all go away.

The only thing he _can_ do is try to carry on and ignore what’s happening. Shove every nightmarish vision into the back of his mind, and instead focus on the mission he’s set himself.

Bruce. The Joker. _Revenge_.

It’s only when he goes to London to meet a Russian explosives expert that something finally changes.

“You smell like grave dirt, boy.” a low voice accuses him one afternoon there, when he’s sitting next to one of the city’s many fountains, having a smoke and doing his level best to go unnoticed.

The accusation comes from a woman with long, grey, flyaway hair spilling out from underneath an old battered hat. Layers of faded clothes drape down over her body like flaps of excess skin, and she herself has a distinctive odour of sweat and unwashed flesh. One Jason instantly recognises, based on a lifetime of knowing other people just like her.

It doesn’t matter where you are, London or Gotham, all cities leave their homeless to suffer the same.

“I’m sorry?” he says back to her, a little slow and dazed from exhaustion, as well as a hangover from staying up drinking vodka with Ivanko’s ‘friends’ last night.

“I said,” She draws herself up self-importantly, “You smell like grave dirt. What did you do, go swimming in it?”

Her accent is pure cockney, and Jason winces at how sharply it falls against his ears. Though to be honest, it’s nothing compared to how hard his heart has just started beating now that he’s fully processed what it is she said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” he replies, forcing blank boredom into his voice. Like he’s just another dumb American teenager wasting a year travelling in Europe, rather than someone for whom those words have struck a very real nerve.

“Oh yes, you do,” she huffs at him, the already deep wrinkles on her face twisting into valleys with her annoyance, “I can see it right in your face. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“By the fountain?”

“No! ‘Ere!” This time, she shrieks loud enough to pierce his eardrums, as well as those of a few other people nearby. “ _Here_ , in the land of the living. It’s not right it is, dead people walking about all willy nilly in the middle of the day. Breathing like they got places to be when they should be underground sleeping.”

 _Underground._ With a painful flash, Jason remembers looking up at the lid of his coffin, and subsequently has to try very hard not to throw up.

“I’m not dead.”

“Well obviously not now you’re not,” she says, and maybe her voice softens just a fraction in response to his tone this time, but Jason’s too shook up to be sure, “But you _were_. Should be. It’s all around you still, clinging like perfume. No wonder the rest of them keep following you around so much.”

Like someone throwing ice water over him, Jason’s blood freezes in his veins.

“What?” he croaks.

“Oh don’t ‘what’ me, you little toerag!” the woman snaps, unimpressed again, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. All them dead trailing around in your wake. Bleeding disgrace it is. Got the whole city in uproar, as a matter of fact. So how about you be a good lad and tell ‘em to go home right now, or else.”

“Go… home?” Jason idly realises he’s shaking, “I can’t… I… I don’t know what you mean, how can I…”

“I don’t know!” she hisses, then flaps her hand in his direction, “Just do the opposite of whatever it is you’re doing now.”

“I’m not doing anything now.” he protests, voice high and weak.

“‘Sides blaring out necrotic energy like a damn beacon, you mean?” Shaking her head, she turns her attention to the old, rusted shopping cart beside her that Jason hadn’t even noticed was there before. “Bleeding two hundred years old, I am, and getting mouthed off to by undead teenage yanks. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, you poor sod.”

Two hundred...

Jason can’t feel his fingers suddenly. He doesn’t know how or why she knows, or exactly what it is she’s wanting him to do. But every word she threw at him is now a maggot burrowing deep into his brain to send well-cultivated instincts into overdrive. Fight or flight, and given their circumstances — stuck in broad daylight around a whole host of civilians — it’s the latter that quickly takes precedence.

Get out. Get safe. Regroup. That’s what Bruce taught him, and as much as he hates to have to rely on his advice these days, there’s no denying that it’s apt in this situation.

Jason lurches up, stumbles, and as quickly as he can, moves away from the fountain, out of the crowded park in which it’s situated, and down into the more familiar setting of a dirty and narrow side street.

“Fuck,” he whispers, leaning against the red brick wall of one of the surrounding buildings and hanging his head down while he tries to get his breath back. “Fuck, fuck.”

_You smell like grave dirt._

He can’t, he can’t. He doesn’t—

“You all right there, luv?”

Jason stiffens at the voice. It’s not the woman’s, thank god. Instead, it belongs to what he guesses is a man, judging by the rough, husky timbre.

There’s also the pair of scuffed, black shoes that appear in his line of sight to go on, and the trousers. Then, looking up further, the white shirt, tan coat and loose tie, finally followed by a face composed of a stubbled jaw, tan features, blue eyes and a crop of blonde hair that looks like it was ripped straight out of a Sting concert in 1988.

Jason shakes his head hurriedly. Maybe the guy means well, but the last thing he wants is more attention right now. “Fine,” he waves his hand to brush the concern off, “M’fine.”

“Bit of a conflicting message you’re giving there, mate,” this new stranger says cheerfully, unperturbed by his action, “What with the panicked running and all. Not that there’s anything to be ashamed of, mind you; you’re hardly the first bloke Mad Hettie’s sent scarpering.”

“Mad... Hettie?”

“Yeah, old bird with the hat and the shopping trolley you were talking to back there. Bit of a terror she is, sometimes.”

“No kidding.” Jason answers, before he can stop himself. Trying to regain his composure, he asks, “And who are you?”

“Constantine,” is the easy answer, “John to me mates.”

“Well, _Constantine_ ,” Jason says, making a point of it, “Like I said before, I’m fine. No need for any concern.”

“Oh really?” Now smirking, Constantine reaches into a pocket, before pulling out and placing a cigarette between his lips.

Belatedly, Jason remembers he’d been holding one of his own before ‘Mad Hettie’ came up to him, but now can’t for the life of him think where it went. He must have dropped it at some point during his helter skelter rush to get away from her.

“Really.”

“‘Cos if you’re not, I was planning on offering you a bit of help with that ghost problem you’ve been having. A tad more reasonably than she did, though. But of course, if you don’t want me to…”

Jason’s nerves, which were almost halfway back to being settled down, once more shoot up. “How do you know about that?!” he blurts out, wondering if this Constantine’s been spying on him somehow.

“Oh, same way Hettie did.” After taking a moment to light his cigarette, Constantine gives Jason another, far more considering look. “I got the touch.”

Before Jason can stop them, the follow up words _I got the power_ blaze across his mind. Hurriedly, he shakes his head to clear it. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

“Pfft, guess not, but it still felt fun to say.” Standing up straighter, Constantine exhales a lungful of smoke. “Here’s a better one, I’m a magician of sorts. Magus, mystic, whatever you want to call it. And unfortunately for me own sanity, the universe has got a mean habit of dragging me into business like yours. Hettie wasn’t kidding when she said your presence has got all this city’s dead up in a tizzy.”

“She also said she was two hundred years old.” Jason protests, personal dignity still trying to find some reasonable means of denial.

“And that she is, luv, give or take a few years.” Before Jason can stop him, Constantine’s stepped forward and reached up, two of his fingers grazing down the streak of white staining Jason’s bangs. “You’ve got Death’s touch on you, kid. I don’t know how you managed it, or why she decided to let you go, but that’s the truth. It’s like a magnet, and intentionally or not, that means every ghost around is being drawn to you.”

Jason flinches back from the touch, then pauses. Magic, magicians. As much as he, like Bruce, prefers to fall on the logical, scientific side of explaining the universe they live in, it’s impossible to deny the reality that such things exist. He’s met Wonder Woman, the daughter of ancient gods, and been in the presence of Zatanna, as well as once (very, very briefly), Doctor Fate. That this Constantine really is someone like them isn’t at all out of the realms of possibility, particularly considering all he’s successfully claimed to know.

His motivations on the other hand…

“Even if I do believe you,” Jason straightens up finally, fighting to rein himself in, “Why the hell would you want to help me?”

“Did you miss the part where I said every ghost around is following you?” Constantine raises an eyebrow, “London’s kind of my home turf, luv; I’d rather like to see her back to normal, and her ghosts where they belong.”

“So not exactly out of the goodness of your heart, then.”

“Not if it makes you feel any better.” Constantine taps ash off his cigarette, “Look, I don’t need to know how you came to be here, why you’ve ended up this way, or what else you’ve been through since. Entirely up to you how much you share. But if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life being actively haunted, then you’ll let me get on and do my work. Your choice.”

Jason clenches his fists at his sides. He may have already more or less indirectly admitted that Constantine is right about him being ‘haunted’, but that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable saying the words aloud, fully admitting to both himself and others the truth of what’s been going on. About how even months after his resurrection death still has a hold on him.

Then again, he thinks, as images of the various horrors he’s witnessed these past few months flit back across his mind, he’s not exactly comfortable with continuing on the way he has been either.

“You can get rid of them, completely?” he asks.

“No,” Constantine answers, “Not completely. You’ll still be able to see the buggers, that I can’t change, but what I _can_ do is stop ‘em being drawn to you.”

It’s not enough, not nearly, yet what other choice does he have? He can’t go on like this. Not when his life is already bad enough as it is without having the burden of being a ghost magnet on top of it.

“Fine.” Jason spits out, “But if I find out you’re lying to me, or you try anything funny…”

“Death, dismemberment, eternal condemnation of my soul. Got it.” John drawls, amusedly, “Though you might have a fight on your hands when it comes to the last one.”

He’s not even going to try and understand what that means.

“So how do you—”

Jason’s not sure what happens. One moment he’s talking, the next, weightless, while the world around him seems to fade and dim as he drifts through it, his every thought wrapped in cotton and clouds.

_Light. Darkness. The sound of wings._

_A white hand holding his green gloved one, and a woman’s voice, warm like that of an open embrace until it isn’t._

_“Huh, that’s not supposed to happen.”_

_“What’s not supposed to—?”_

Jason blinks opens his eyes to the sensation of a dry hand patting his cheek. In front of him, Constantine is still smoking, and seems rather amused at the amount of time it takes Jason to return his focus. “Back with us now, luv?”

“Wha…” he tries to say, then swallows, “What?”

“Yep,” Constantine smirks, “There you go. Back in the land of the living.”

At once, Jason grimaces. Dazed as he might be, there’s no way he’s letting that one go. “Fuck you.”

“Nah,” Constantine says, still grinning, “You’re not old enough for me yet.”

This time, Jason just settles on glaring. “What was that?” he asks.

“ _That_ was me putting a pretty solid shield over that necrotic aura of yours, if I do say so myself.” Constantine gives Jason a cursory once over, before idly flicking the end of his cigarette down into the gutter. “Now the dead won’t bother you. Not so long as you don’t deliberately go seeking them out, that is. Which I don’t advise, by the way.”

“No kidding,” Jason reaches up to rub his head. Already, the strange sensations of whatever it was Constantine did to him are fading, and though he tries to grasp at them — sensing that something there was important — they only continue to slip further and further away. It’s like trying to hold onto water.

“No, no kidding.” Constantine says, expression abruptly taking a serious track once again, “I mean it, luv. Those dead who stay on earth, they’re here for a variety of reasons, and rarely any of them good. It takes strong emotion to fight the natural order of things and not pass on. Rage is the most common factor. Vengeance. Those spirits…” he shakes his head, “No good comes of getting mixed up with them.”

Jason’s mind flashes back to the little girl he’d first seen. Her anger. Her fury, childish and potent. “... not even if doing so helps them move on?”

Constantine gives him a look, like he knows there’s a story behind Jason asking it. “Rare’s the angry spirit that actually wants to move on, lad. It’s eats them up you see, existing like that for years; sometimes for decades or centuries. Consumes them until that’s all they are. Ones who get to that stage…” He purses his lips, “They’d rather burn the whole world down and take everyone else with them before they let go of what’s holding them back. Getting rid of those beggars takes an exorcist; a skilled magus. Not some inexperienced kid trying to be kind.”

“So you’ve never helped one? A spirit?”

“Didn’t say that. Just that it’s not for amateurs to be doing.” Constantine looks up at the overcast sky. “Not if you want any semblance of peace anyway.”

Jason shudders. Peace, ha. Like he’s ever had that before.

“I’ll take that under consideration.”

Constantine snorts, “I’m sure you will. Now, take it easy on the way back to where you’re staying. You still might be woozy for a while.”

“If this doesn’t work—”

“It’ll work.”

“But if it doesn’t?”

Constantine pauses on the verge of exiting the side street for the main one. His lips curve slyly, “Then I’ll find you. Provided you’re still in London, o’course.”

He’s gone. Jason blinks, then staggers. Apparently, he wasn’t kidding about being woozy.

But, as he starts to make his own slow, unsteady way out of here, it does feel like something has changed around him. Like his steps are lighter and his head clearer than it ever has been since he came back.

Perking up at the realisation, Jason smiles. He’ll wait a few days just to be sure, but if he really is cured, there’s no reason to hold back anymore.

Batman, and his plan, are calling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get real.

Gotham. The city stretches out before Jason from where he’s perched on top of one of the tallest buildings in an intricate patchwork of artificial light and nebulous darkness. From a distance, it’s beautiful, as the pattern hides all the rot that lurks beneath. The dark secrets that line the streets, and the costumed freaks who live among them.

Both hero and villain.

It’s been six months since he met Constantine, and as he’d promised, Jason’s little ghost problem has become more manageable ever since he did what he did. Not fixed exactly, but manageable. He still sees ghosts, but no longer in such an overwhelming frequency everywhere he goes. And when he does see them, he puts the last words of advice the man gave him to good use by refusing to engage with them or draw their attention to him.

It’s worked surprisingly well so far, and so Jason had used the lack of distraction to throw himself back into his studies with a renewed passion, passing through the rest of the tutors Talia had arranged for him with flying colours. There had been other issues along the way, of course, but none of them supernatural, and now, finally, he’s ready to begin. Ready to go ahead and show Bruce exactly how wrong he’s been all these years.

Bruce…

The moment the name crosses his mind, Jason feels his jaw tighten. He’s probably out there even now, somewhere in the urban hellscape Jason’s surveying, putting ‘terror’ into the hearts of some thugs. Gotham city’s very own guardian angel, effective except for when he isn’t. Except for when his refusal to cross the line gets innocent people killed.

For a moment, Jason can only see bloodied concrete under his face. Only hear that hideous laugh in his ear.

What had gone through Bruce’s mind, he wonders, when he found his body after that? Had he screamed, cried? Or had he just bundled it all up inside him in that infuriatingly Batman way, pretending he didn’t have emotions in a bid to appear untouchable.

Or maybe he really had been unaffected, considering how the Joker is still alive, and how quickly he’d sourced Jason’s replacement.

A lump forms in Jason’s throat the moment he thinks it, and he can feel his own eyes sting. Yes, that sounds more like it. Impervious, implacable Bruce, whose standards Jason had never been good enough to meet. Always so quick to judge and slow to compliment, whatever anger he’d felt towards the Joker had probably been overshadowed by his irritation at Jason for not listening to him. For getting himself killed for thinking he could take on the Joker alone.

Well fuck him, he probably could have. No, scratch that, _would_ have, if not for the actions of the woman who was supposed to be his mother. It wasn’t Jason’s fault he didn’t see that coming. Honestly, who would? Certainly not Bruce, for all that he pretended at omnipotence every chance he could get. And if the World’s Greatest Detective didn’t figure it out, his fifteen year old protege certainly hadn’t stood a chance at doing so.

Not that Bruce would care about that. The only one who ever escaped his scorn was Grayson, the golden child, who for all his faults, was always held up on a pedestal Jason could never hope to reach.

He was just never, _ever_ good enough, no matter what he did. No matter how hard he tried, there was always some fault to be found.

Well, Jason knows better than that now. He could have killed Bruce a year ago if he wanted to, with just the push of a button, and he never would have even known where that death blow came from. It was only the fact that Jason had realised that such a death would be unsatisfying because of that very aspect that had spared him. Then, further down the line, that his priorities had changed.

He no longer wants to kill Bruce for failing to avenge him. For lying and never loving him enough in the first place to even try. No, now the goal is entirely different. Jason’s here to prove him wrong, to punish him. To show him how utterly ineffective he’s been in his approach all these years, and ultimately be better than him.

“Take Gotham from him.” Talia had said the last time he saw her. Before she told him her father was dead and took him to bed. “Be the man he can never be. Be the Batman Gotham _needs_. No boundaries, or allegiances… or self-important moral codes. Cross the line.”

_Cross the line._

Yes, Jason certainly intends to do that. Starting tonight. The first pieces are already in place: a false meeting set up between Black Mask’s top dealers, and two hours time in which for him to collect the pieces he’ll need to turn them over to his side instead.

Gotham. Batman. Black Mask. The Joker.

Hefting the rifle on his back, and the empty — for now — duffle bag on his shoulder, Jason steps back from the edge of the rooftop.

It’s time to get to work.

 

* * *

 

Black Mask’s men fold quickly, and soon enough Jason has another steady income on top of the money Talia has already given him. Then it’s only a matter of intercepting the latest delivery Sionis has incoming, filled with so many wonderful, dangerous things.

He catches his first glimpse of Bruce then, as he expected, and oh what a nice surprise, he has Grayson there with him, too. It makes Jason feel all the more pleasure at siccing Amazo on them at the same time as he makes his escape with a full crate of Kryptonite, chasing down reflexive anger with the thrill of this first stage going exactly to plan.

Sionis himself is easy to deal with. Push a little here, mock a little there. Really, the fact that Jason already has what he so blatantly wants does most of the work for him. He makes his initial outrageous demand for fifty million to predictable reaction, and plays up taking Sionis’ much smaller counter offer for the insult it is before eventually giving in. Really, the money isn’t the main factor here. Not when he already knows he’ll be betrayed over it.

Just so long as everyone involved, Black Mask and Bruce, buy his act, that’s all that matters.

Jason goes to the drop site first, and lays his trap for Roman’s men intricately. They’re ever so nice, really, the toys that Talia’s hostile takeover of WayneTech’s R&D department have netted him. The only surprise is Freeze showing up with a new improved suit that’s resistant to heavy machine gun fire. Irritating, but no big deal really. Batman and Nightwing are there soon after, which is what he was really hoping for.

He leaves them there, with the Kryptonite and the bodies of Sionis’ mooks to deal with. As he told Grayson, he’s got the lay of the land now, and stage two of his plan promises to be a lot more fun.

There’s just one more thing he needs to do first.

It doesn’t take long to find him. For all that he has a reputation for being chaotic, in many ways the Joker is actually terribly predictable. Jason enters the abandoned carnival at the edge of town with a crowbar in one hand and his heart beating rapidfire in his chest.

Today isn’t the endgame play. No, that’s still a long way off. Instead, it’s a reckoning. Payback. A personal moment of catharsis, where he confronts the devil of his nightmares and proves himself stronger than the beast.

Moving carefully, he picks his way through the eerie stillness that is a space meant for children at night. Though so far as he’s concerned, a carnival can be creepy enough for an adult even in the day. There’s hardly any noise here, no hustle and bustle of a place well loved. Only the slow creaking of rust covered rides that seem one strong gust of wind away from toppling over.

Eventually, Jason’s path leads him to the funhouse.

Its entrance is disconcertingly fashioned like a clown’s grinning mouth, but he doesn’t let that put him off. His quarry is in here somewhere, his payback, and he won’t let himself be stopped from getting it by anything.

Which is exactly the moment there’s a familiar flickering out of the corner of his eye.

Jason tenses, goes still. It’s disconcerting that even wearing the helmet can’t protect him from seeing the dead, and he immediately pulls Constantine’s advice to the front of his mind. Ignore them, don’t draw their attention, and especially don’t let them know you can see them.

One, two, three. He breathes before hurriedly stepping on. He’s almost there now; it’s almost time.

A door with flaking paint hides the actual interior of the funhouse. But there’s no lock on the handle, and Jason has no hesitation at pulling it open and looking inside.

Just as he predicted, the Joker is there, sitting against the back wall with a pile of discarded children’s toys next to him. He looks a wreck, far from his usual polished, preening self, and at the sound of Jason’s intrusion he looks up, sour faced and grumbling beneath his breath. “Who’s there?”

Those two words alone are enough to transport Jason back four years for a moment. To when he was a short, lean fifteen year old held at this monster’s mercy and feeling the crowbar beat down upon his bound, helpless body. He remembers the way the Joker had jeered at him, had laughed and mocked. How it had felt as his bones broke and the blood dripped from his mouth.

But rather than paralyse him the way it might someone else, the memory only serves to energise Jason. Remind him of exactly why he’s here. This time, the only one who’s going to bleed is the clown.

“Tell me who you are… or I’ll kill you…” The Joker is continuing, completely unaware of exactly who it is that’s come to visit him this evening. “You think I’m kidding?”

Stepping forward, Jason reaches out to grab the Joker by one pale, spidery wrist. “No,” he says, voice rough and heavy as it emerges from his throat, “I’d never think that.”

But before his hand can make contact, he freezes, because suddenly, out of nowhere, the two of them are no longer alone.

On every side, there are faces, bodies. Men, women and children of all ages, races and creeds. People with rictus grins and melted flesh, bullet holes and slit throats. Some wear the clothes of yesteryear. Others, today. But they all have at least one thing in common: all of them are dead, and all of them are watching _him_.

He stumbles back, the clear clarity of personal vengeance gone in an instant. Every word of advice Constantine gave him flies out of Jason’s head as he stares at them, engages with them, unable to stop himself. They’re everywhere, too many to count, as every time he blinks it seems like there’s a new face staring back at him from the crowd. Multitudes of them.

_How many?_ he thinks, mind blanking under the full force of the horror of what he’s seeing, _Oh god, how many?_

Graveyards full, is the answer. Graveyards upon graveyards. He’s staring at the Joker’s own personal death vigil, and they won’t stop coming. On every side they surround him, their chill sinking into his own and turning his bones into pillars of ice.

“You seem disturbed,” the Joker comments, a smile now starting to twitch onto his face as he watches him, “What’s the matter, kiddo? Too starstruck to perform? You should be, I’m kind of a big deal in these parts.”

He can’t see them, Jason realises. Of course he can’t, why would he? But oh. Oh, they can definitely see him.

Cold hands lay over Jason’s on the crowbar. Dozens of fingers. No, _hundreds_ of them. They tug at his wrist, his clothes, his hair. Push at his back and neck. It’s like a great, swelling pressure around him, a _wave_ , crushing down on his lungs and restricting his ability to breathe.

_Do it_ , one voice whispers in his ear. Then another and another, until the words start to overlap into a full Greek chorus as the ghosts catch onto his intent and intensify it a hundredfold. _Do it! Do it!_

_Hurt **him**._

It’s the accumulated rage of hundreds, sinking into his own. All of a sudden, Jason’s own grievances seem small and petty in comparison, and every carefully crafted detail of his long-term plan falls out of his head, replaced instead by the same cold clarity that had once infected him in the house with the little girl.

No more. There can’t be. No more.

The Joker is standing now, tall and gangling and laughing. More words escape his lips as he advances on Jason, so sure he has the advantage now, but Jason doesn’t hear them. He’s focused, and he knows what he has to do.

The first blow lands like a thundercrack, breaking the air apart and sweeping through ghostly visages before the crowbar makes contact with the solid flesh and bone of the Joker’s face, cutting off the sound of his laughter. Jason gives him no time to recover from it either, as the second lands just as quick and hard against the space between the monster’s neck and shoulder, snapping his collarbone with a satisfying crunch. It’s swiftly followed by a third blow, then a fourth and fifth.

Six, seven.

Eight…

Before he knows it, Jason has stopped counting. He just continues to rain blows down upon his murderer, and the murderer of everyone else in this room. The pure bleed of violence makes it easier, too, for all other thoughts and cares to slip away. None of the words he wanted to say before in this moment matter now. There’s no time for taunting or teasing. No time to parrot back, _Now tell me, how does that feel?_ the way he imagined. Only the act matters, as blood starts to spatter across the concrete floor of the funhouse, and his hungry, vengeful audience looms all the closer.

Exactly how long it gets on for, Jason will never be able to guess, but eventually he collapses down onto his knees next to what’s left of the body with his own aching in more ways than one.

It’s a fight to claw off his helmet, and only when his face is bare does he register the wetness dripping down his cheeks, the roughness of his throat. He’s crying, screaming, maybe has been this entire time, and even now the deed is done it won’t stop. He feels empty and used and broken worse than he ever was before, and the ghosts…

The ghosts are dissipating, slowly. Hollow eyes and frozen grins fading. Because of course they get to leave now. They don’t have to stay and live with the reality of the world and themselves. Their killer is dead and they are free, while Jason isn’t. Never has been, never will be.

He throws up. Coughs and vomits. His gloves are stained with blood, so he gets rid of those too after throwing away the crowbar, but it’s still not enough. He’s still unclean, dirty. Without victory or validation. There’s no joy in what’s happened here, only exhaustion, and the bleak reality of his world once again turning itself on its head.

Things were never supposed to be this way.

Shaking, Jason curls in on himself, unable to stop the tears from continuing to fall. Quietly at first, then louder.

He wants to be fifteen again. To feel _safe_ again, the way he only ever did for a spectacularly short time in his life. He wants to be done with ghosts and vengeance. Wants never to have gone looking for his birth mother in the first place, and instead stayed at home. But he can’t take it back. Not any of it.

Never before has he felt so alone.

Which is how, maybe hours or minutes later, Bruce finds him.

Jason doesn’t register the footsteps, nor the rustle of his cape, until he’s almost upon him. Until a gasp of horror at the grisly scene reaches his ears, and with a heavy thump that tall armoured body kneels down next to his own.

“... Jason?” Bruce says, disbelieving, and really who can blame him? Not Jason, that’s for damn sure. “Jason, is that really…”

Gloved hands take hold of his face, lifting it, and for all that he wants to remain curled tight in a ball forever, Jason can’t resist that pull. Though he does keep his eyes downcast, either refusing or unable to bring himself to look at Bruce —- the stern, accusing front of his cowl, directly. He’s not sure which, only that it hurts to be here, breathing, when he was supposed to have moved on long ago.

“How?” Bruce is saying, hoarse and like he’s on the edge of a breakdown of his own. “How? How are you here? What…” His thumbs dig harder into Jason’s cheeks, as if to make sure that he’s real, _solid_ , “What happened?”

He has no words to say, unable to do anything but try to shake his head and tremble in Bruce’s hold. This is all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And yet… a piteous moan breaks free of his lips as he catches a glimpse of blood-spattered purple and green out of the corner of his eye again.

It shatters something in Bruce. In Jason, too, he thinks, because when those hands drop from his face to instead wind around his shoulders and draw him into an embrace, he doesn’t fight it. No, he _collapses_ inwards, like a puppet with all of its strings cut, and starts to cry once more.

“Shh,” Bruce murmurs, still sounding lost even as he scrounges for some form of control over the situation. “Shh, it’s all right, Jason. I’m here, I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go.”

And against all his better judgement, all the rage and bitterness Jason has carried in his heart since the day he first emerged out of the Lazarus Pit, he believes him. He believes him because in this moment he needs to; because he has nothing else left. Because, despite everything he’s been through, there’s still a part of him that remains the dumb kid he was before he died, sure that so long as Bruce was around everything would be okay, no matter how much evidence he had to the contrary.

(God, does he have so much evidence to the contrary.)

Bruce’s broad hand has begun to rub soothing circles on Jason’s back while he thinks, and that too, is a familiar motion. A holdover from the days when they patrolled Gotham’s skyline together, designed to give him either praise or reassurance whenever he needed it.

Jason used to live for such touches. For Bruce’s smile, and the rare, softly given compliment. Only now, though, does it come roaring back to him how much he missed them. How much he missed _him_.

_You are such a fool._

He should get up. He should run, flee, or maybe even kill him while Bruce is still stunned and with his guard down. But Jason doesn’t.

Instead, he continues to cling tight to his suit. Like Bruce is the only solid thing left to him in the universe, holding together between pinched fingers the wound in Jason the ghosts have ripped right back open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (btw, I spent so much time scrutinising comic panels in UtRH for this one, I may have them memorised now)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hey, you all might notice an extra chapter's been added onto this fic. Mostly because while I originally envisioned it as three chapters and Skali as the recipient of this gift was happy with it as such when I presented them to her, I myself can't help but feel the story needs a little more rounding off before it's done, so I hope you all won't mind being a little bit more patient with me with while I get to that. I promise, it'll be for the better in the end <3
> 
> Enjoy!

At some point, he stops crying. At some point, Bruce lifts Jason, away from the murder, before guiding him back to the secure interior of the Batmobile, where Jason falls asleep to the smell of leather and pine (Alfred’s favoured scent for cleaning products), and doesn’t wake up again till much later; far, far away from the scene of the Joker’s grisly demise.

Clean sheets cover him, made of soft, white cotton, while feather pillows support his head. The ceiling, meanwhile, is painted a tastefully inoffensive shade of cream, so as not to clash with the dark wooden panels on the walls. It’s familiar in that vague sort of way, where it nudges the nostalgic parts of Jason’s brain that remember waking up to a similar ceiling for years on end, back in what feels like a lifetime ago.

It’s the Manor, he realises. He’s in Wayne Manor.

_Shit._

On unsteady arms, Jason pushes himself up from the bed. Daylight streams in through the window, the only clue he has to what time it is. Many hours, at least, since Bruce found him in the Joker’s funhouse, and therefore plenty of time for his former mentor to have started digging into where he came from. Not only that, but to have gotten over his shock at finding Jason alive enough to start reconciling his reappearance and the actions of the Red Hood as well.

All of which means Jason is about to be in some real trouble, if of course he doesn’t get out of here first.

But even with that in mind, it’s hard to make himself move. The bed is so warm and comfortable beneath him, awash with familiar scents, and somehow that soothes the emotional aches he’s feeling, alongside the physical ones. It’s a sign of weakness maybe, but after everything that’s happened, hasn’t he earned that? The right to be weak, even if it’s just in this one, purely selfish moment. He has no purpose anymore, no plan to enact now that he’s destroyed its key component himself. For the right reasons, he’s sure, yet the point remains…

The Joker is dead. There’ll be no more grand game. No forcing of Bruce’s hand to make him see the truth and punish him for what he both did and didn’t do. Jason is going to have to live with that.

Oh god, he’s going to have to—

Rolling onto his side, he pulls the blankets up above his head to block out the light. Only then, it’s suddenly too dark, and all the faces of the ghosts he’d seen come rushing back at him.

With a gasp, Jason tears himself free again, this time sitting straight up like the devil himself had rammed a steel bar up his ass all the way to the base of his neck.

So much for getting anymore rest.

Reluctantly, he swings his legs out from the bed, letting his bare feet hit the carpeted floor. Someone — Alfred, he hopes — has changed his tactical gear for soft sweatpants and a t-shirt that sits just a little too large on his shoulders. Which is another factor he doesn’t want to think about, considering there’s only one other person in this house who could own a garment large enough to do that.

It’s a short walk to the ensuite bathroom, but still Jason finds himself shaking and having to lean against the wall for support before he’s made it even halfway. The persistent cold that sits in his bones is somehow even worse than usual, as if the ghosts surrounding the Joker had tainted him during their brief possession, as well as drawn out all of his energy.

God, he hopes it isn’t permanent. He’s used to his own chill now, but to have theirs added on top of it for the rest of his life as well…

At the sink, Jason splashes his face with water and takes a long drink directly from the faucet. It helps somewhat, though not quite enough to take away the mild shock he feels upon seeing his reflection in the mirror. His skin is even paler than usual, almost bone white, which makes the few freckles he still has remaining from childhood stand out all the more starkly. Meanwhile, the dark circles under his eyes have the effect of making him look like someone double-punched him in the face, or like he’s escaped out of the Addams Family’s basement.

“Shit,” he mutters hoarsely, if only to hear the sound of his own voice as he rubs the bridge of his nose, “Fucking damn it.”

Then the door from the bedroom to the rest of the house opens, and Jason embarasses himself further by almost falling sideways into the shower in a reflexive bid to get out of sight. 

“Master Jason?” A soft, gentlemanly voice inquires, and damn it, Jason closes his eyes as he hangs onto the shower curtain for support, Alfred is the one person he can’t hide from here. He can’t.

But he doesn’t know if he’s ready to face his disappointment yet, either.

Unfortunately for him, though, the bedroom doesn’t leave much guesswork when it comes to hiding places, and the gentle rap of knuckles against the bathroom door soon lets Jason know he’s been found out. There’s no choice for him then but to open his eyes again and confront the closest person he’s ever had to a grandfather.

“Hey, Al.”

“Hello, Master Jason.” Alfred looks older, which makes sense Jason supposes. His hair is a little greyer, and there’s a little less of it. But on the flip side, his wrinkles have increased exponentially. “It’s good to see you up and awake.”

Jason wavers a moment, trying to decide if there’s a double meaning meant to the words before giving up on it. Far more distracting is the way his throat and stomach have tightened up in conjunction with each other. “Well, you know how much I hate sitting idle.”

“I do seem to recall a boy who never could do without a task or book to hand, yes.” A hard swallow shakes the composed lines of Alfred’s face. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he reaches over to seize Jason’s shoulder in his hand, “My dear boy, I can’t… I cannot even _begin_ to express to you what it means to me to have you here again.”

Alfred couldn’t have made him feel guiltier if he tried. Unable to hold his gaze any longer, Jason ducks his head down. “You have no idea what you’re saying with that.”

“I have every idea,” Alfred replies, not letting go, “And no matter what happened to make it so, or your intentions in returning now, that will always remain true.”

“My intentions…” he chokes off a laugh, before hardening his voice. “I think I made those pretty damn clear.”

Briefly, Alfred’s fingers tighten their grip, before suddenly letting go as if burnt. Jason expected it, of course, but it still hurts.

“You’re still cold,” Alfred says, tone remaining gentle, even as it shifts back to its usual professionalism, “Come, let’s get you back under the blankets.”

“I’m fine.” Jason replies, not moving. Because if he does, he really thinks he might fall down. “Where’s Bruce?”

“Master Bruce is currently working. Downstairs.” 

Downstairs meant the Cave, always. 

“And he sent you up here to talk to me first.”

“Your sudden reappearance has shaken him quite badly.” Alfred admits.

_Probably not as bad as it’s shaken me._

Using his existing hold on the shower curtain, while bracing his other hand against the sink, Jason forces himself to straighten back up as he reaches a decision. “Guess that means I’ll have to go down to him, then.”

“Master Jason, I really think you ought to—”

“ _No_.” he says, sharper than he perhaps meant to, “I’m not going to hang around here, waiting for him to be ‘ready’ to talk to me. I’m sure he wants answers, and I’m the only one who has them for him. We’re doing this now.”

Jason may have blown his chance at enacting his original plan, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still hit Bruce where it hurts, and gaining the advantage by making the first move is the beginning step to that. The best defence is a good offense, after all.

Alfred thins his lips, but doesn’t argue further. “Very well, then. Come along.”

At the door, Alfred makes him put on a pair of slippers that again feel just a little too big for his feet. Jason wants to kick them down the hall about as much as he wants the rip the shirt he’s wearing from his shoulders, but refrains on both accounts. Any brief victory he’d feel from doing so wouldn’t be worth the resulting discomfort that would follow.

“Is Nightwing here?” he asks on the way down, remembering Dick’s presence beside Batman last night. 

“No.” Alfred answers, “After yesterday’s events, Master Bruce sent him away. He’s gone back to Bludhaven.”

That must have stung the golden boy something fierce, Jason thinks. He wonders if Bruce told him why, or if it was just one of those brusque, out of nowhere dismissals he was so fond of giving, no explanation required. Yes, probably that, since Jason can’t for a moment imagine that if Bruce had told him the truth, Dick would have allowed himself to be kicked out at all.

The rest of the walk goes quietly, and slowly, as Jason’s exhaustion continues to permeate. Alfred, ever patient, is content to let him take his time with minimal interference. Seemingly, he also remembers Jason’s independent streak as well as his inability to stay unoccupied.

“Careful on the stairs now,” Alfred goes ahead of him down the steps. Still faintly lit only by small lights underfoot, because Bruce loves a good safety hazard in his day to day life. Probably thinks it helps keep him alert or something. Asshole.

Yet the lower they get, the more Jason feels the trepidation start to rise again in his chest. He remembers all too clearly the way he’d clung to Bruce last night. The relief that had flooded him at seeing his former mentor in the wake of killing the Joker instead of the righteous anger he’d expected to greet him with. It feels like a betrayal of everything he stands for. Everything that has kept him going the last couple years, when it would have been so much easier to give into despair instead.

What if it happens again when he sees Bruce now? What if he can’t… Jason shakes his head. With careful purpose, he dredges up the memories of seeing the newspaper that had told him about Bruce recapturing the Joker alive again, as well as the photos Talia had provided of the new Robin, Tim Drake. They help a little.

He can do this.

“Master Jason?”

“Yes, Al?” he looks up to see that Alfred has stopped in front of him, and is looking back in Jason’s direction with a distinct expression of concern. He hadn’t realised he’d slowed down enough while thinking to draw his attention.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Jason answers quickly, “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The Cave is exactly as he remembers it. Shadow layered upon shadow, black piled on top of black. There’s the car, and the training room. The lab space, the infirmary. The door to the showers, and the careful arc where the costumes cases are arranged in a neat line — one of which, even from a distance, Jason thinks looks distinctly like his old one. Further afield, he knows there’s also the hangar for the plane, and deeper down below, the place where the boat sits waiting atop the underground river.

But he can’t stay focused on any of those. Instead, all of Jason’s attention is fixated on the sight of the great computer that takes up an entire alcove all its own, and, more importantly, the man sitting in front of it.

“Jason,” Bruce stands up as he approaches. Dressed in casual clothing rather than the Batsuit, he’s a far cry from what Jason was expecting. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“While you look into my reappearance and try to figure out where I came from all by yourself? No way.” It takes almost everything he has to walk past Alfred, then. To step up to Bruce with his spine straight and shoulders squared. “You want answers to your questions, I’m right here.”

Bruce stares at him, subconsciously squaring up in return, which is about when Alfred delicately clears his throat. “I am going to go fetch some tea. I hope I can expect both of you to remain civil until then.”

Like scolded children, they both cringe minutely. “We’ll be fine, Alfred. Thank you.” Bruce says.

Alfred turns, and for a moment they do nothing else but stand and listen to the sound of his receding footsteps before looking back at each other.

“You should sit down.” 

“What?” Jason blinks.

Bruce frowns as he steps aside, out of the way of the computer chair. “You should sit down, you still look exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I said, I’m _fine_.”

“Jason—”

“No!”

Bruce’s hand stops in the act of reaching out to him, fingers bare inches away from Jason’s shoulder even after he takes an unsteady step back. He _is_ trembling, he realises. Fine tremors run all across his body and his knees feel weak. But he still can’t give in. Can’t do anything but face Bruce standing.

“... all right.” Bruce says the words slowly, reluctantly. There’s a strange forward lean to his body, like it’s taking everything he has not to just go ahead and force Jason into the chair anyway. “All right. But if you start to feel worse, you will take it, understand?”

“You’re not the boss of me.” Jason says, and hates how whiny and adolescent that sounds. Thirty seconds in front of Bruce, and it already feels like he’s regressing back into being a moody teenager again, complaining that, no, he did not have a cold, and yes, he absolutely is fine to go out on patrol. Screw you, old man. “Just get on with it already.”

Finally, Bruce retracts his hand, holding it close to his body instead with his fingers curled into a fist. “You’re the new Red Hood.”

“Yes.”

“You killed the Joker.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Jason almost chokes at the question, feeling his throat close up with incoherent rage. “Why do you _think_?” he barely refrains from shouting, “He killed me! He killed…” The ghosts flash across his eyes again, in a ghastly parade of frozen faces. “He killed so many people. I had to do it. Someone _had_ to.”

And it should have been Bruce. Except now it never will be.

Bruce’s mouth twists unhappily. “That’s not what I… I guessed that part. I meant, why this charade with the Red Hood before killing him? What was the point of it?”

Jason sags back a little, but doesn’t cease his ire. “You should have made that clear, then.” He looks to the side. Saying it is harder than it should be. Finding the words adequate to fully express his rage almost impossible. 

In the end, all he can do is be honest. “You didn’t avenge me.”

“Jason—”

“You didn’t avenge me,” he repeats, “And I came back to life to find that despite everything, despite how much you said you love me, despite how much you _profess_ to wanting to protect this city, you still let that maniac live. Let him keep hurting people, again and again. Like it didn’t even matter that he murdered me, or a hundred other kids.”

Bruce doesn’t try to talk this time, just watches him.

“It wasn’t supposed to go this way, though.” Jason rags his hand back through his hair, shakily. “I had a… I had a whole plan. I was supposed to show you how wrong you were for never putting him down. For never stopping him permanently. But,” he laughs hoarsely, “I guess that’s all off the table now.”

“What happened?”

It’s a gently prompting, at least compared to some of the ones Bruce gave him when he was a kid, but enough to make the feeling of reporting back after an unsuccessful patrol return to Jason all the same.

He could lie if he wanted to. Quite easily, in fact. Say that seeing the Joker again in the flesh triggered him into a rage he couldn’t pull back from, but yet that’s not what happens. Maybe he’s just too tired to try and pull the wool over Bruce’s eyes, or maybe it’s just that he finally wants someone else to know what it is he’s been going through. Either way, the truth wins out.

“I saw the dead round him.”

The look of confusion on Bruce’s face is one Jason would relish in any other situation. “The dead?”

“Yeah. You know, ghosts, spirits.” Jason sways a little as he says it, another chill shivering it’s way up his spine. “Dead people.”

“Jason,” Bruce starts to reach out again, cautiously, “That’s—”

“Crazy, right?” he takes another small step back, out of range, “I know, but so’s dying and coming back from the dead, and you already know for a fact I did that.”

“I’m not sure I know anything right now, except for what you tell me.”

Jason’s lips twitch. That’s a relatively subtle attempt to get him to confess all from the man who usually resorts to hanging people off rooftops. Nice, but unnecessary. He’s already committed.

“I’ve been able to see them ever since I came back. I guess because once you’ve been dead yourself, that shit clings to you. Usually just one or two in any given place, though. Never like what I saw around _him._ ” Jason shudders, and this time Bruce succeeds when he reaches out to grab his arm and stop him swaying. Impulsively, Jason latches onto his shirt with his other hand. “There were… there were _hundreds_ , B!. At the very least. Men, women, kids; all the people he killed, stuck following him around because they just couldn’t let go. Because they were so damn pissed off by what he did to them, that he kept getting _away_ with it. I saw them, and I just couldn’t go through with my plan after that. Not anymore. What I meant to do, it was all for me. But they… they needed justice, too. Real justice. And once they realised I could see them they were never going to let me go without it.”

It’s like Constantine said, the dead that stick around are usually those that have a bone to pick with the living world. They hold onto the material plane with anger and rage, and when they catch onto someone who can see them, that fury is what comes pouring through. Even now, Jason can still remember how thoroughly it consumed him, then left him feeling raw and empty in its wake.

He never wants to feel anything like that again. Not even if he manages to live a hundred years past his sell-by date this time.

“Easy, son,” Bruce murmurs, “It’s all right, you’re safe here.” Jason doesn’t realise he’s shivering again until Bruce presses the back of his free hand against his forehead. “You need to sit down, you’re freezing.”

“Always am, these days.” Jason laughs a little hysterically, “Guess that’s another side effect of being undead.”

Frowning, Bruce doesn’t allow him to argue this time as he pushes him down into the chair. Then, from somewhere under the computer bank, produces a blanket to wrap around his shoulders. It’s probably a safe bet that Alfred is responsible for that.

“I need you to understand, Jason,” he says, after he’s finished arranging it to his satisfaction, “That this is all a little hard for me to believe.”

“Don’t worry,” Jason says, “I’d think I was insane, too.”

“I don’t think you’re insane,” Bruce corrects him, “But just from what I do know about what you’ve been through, I…” His hands stay heavy on Jason’s shoulders. “I think there’s a lot we have to figure out.”

He snorts. Can’t help it. “That all you going to say knowing what I planned to do?”

Bruce eyes him, looking steadily troubled, old and tired. “I can’t change what I didn’t do. I can’t change who I am either. Killing the Joker could never have been on the cards for me no matter what, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Jason. That I don’t treasure you as my son, or that I’m not glad to see you back and alive again, even if I am worried about you.”

On some level, Jason knows that. Has always known that. At least the part about Bruce never being able to kill the Joker. “Sure you are.” he still says, bitterly looking down.

“I am.” Bruce insists, “Whether you believe it or not, and whatever this is, you and I can work through it together if you’ll just let me help you.”

“You can’t help me.” Jason shakes his head, “You think what I’ve told you so far covers everything that’s happened to me since you put me in the ground? Not even close, Bruce. When you know the whole truth, you’ll want to put me right back down there again.”

“Then you don’t know me as well as you think. I’d _never_ do that to you, Jason. Never. No matter what you’ve done. All I’m asking is that you give me the chance to prove it to you.” Bruce squeezes his shoulders tight. “I won’t lose you again.”

He feels his throat constrict. It’s everything he wants to hear from Bruce, only…

“I don’t believe you.” Jason looks to the side, “But then again, I guess I don’t have much of a choice now, do I? I’m already here, already fucked everything else up. Might as well let this play out, too.”

It’s obviously not what Bruce wants to hear, but to his credit, he doesn’t let that show on his face. 

“I think you need to get some more rest.” he says, “You’re obviously still shaken from what happened. We can continue talking about everything else later.”

“While you keep looking into where I came from by yourself.”

Bruce doesn’t do him the dishonour of trying to lie. “Yes. You know I have to.”

“I know.” Jason holds the blanket tighter around himself. “I want to stay down here.”

“You’ll be more comfortable upstairs.”

“I said I want to stay down here!” he glares. “You want to prove you mean what you say to me, Bruce? Well, start by respecting my choices.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, and for second, Jason doesn't think he’s going to do it. But then, surprisingly, he nods. “Very well. But that goes both ways. You stay down here, you rest, and you don’t try to obstruct me in what I’m doing.”

He rolls his eyes, “Don’t think I could get out of this chair right now if I wanted to. But sure. Hell, I’ll even give you pointers.”

Better to control the narrative, after all, than be dragged along by it, even if it ends badly all the same.

“I’d take any evidence that verifies your claim of being able to see the dead for a start.”

Sinking deeper into the chair, Jason feels his eyelids start to droop now that he knows he’s not going to be forced to go anywhere. “Don’t really have any. Was this guy in London, though. Called himself a big hotshot wizard or something like that… he tried to help me with it.”

Bruce stays watching him. “Do you have a name?”

“Yeah,” The guy was an asshole, so Jason doesn’t feel too bad about setting Bruce after him. “John Constantine.”

“Constantine?” Bruce looks shocked, and oh, now it’s Jason’s turn to be taken aback by the familiarity in his voice. “I see.”

“You know him?”

“Through Zatanna. He’s helped the Justice League before with mystical matters. Though dealing with him is often difficult, to say the least.”

Jason doesn’t know why he’s surprised. “Right, you have fun with that, then.”

Not dignifying the comment with a straight answer, Bruce reluctantly straightens up from his crouch. “Rest, Jason,” he orders, “I’ll make sure Alfred has some food waiting for you when you wake up again.”

“Still not the boss of me, old man.”

Yet his eyes close anyway, and twisting in the chair, Jason finds his face pressed to the worn old leather, carefully inhaling the scent of familiar shampoo and aftershave. A scent that he can’t deny soothes him with the peacefulness of the memories that accompany it, and the remembrance of safety his younger self always felt with Bruce.

He knows he should hate himself for falling into that feeling far more than he does. Especially now that his plan has failed and he no longer knows what’s going to happen to him next. But he can’t, because at least for now, that familiar comfort is everything he wants on the most basic level.

For better or worse, he’s here, and so settling further down into the chair, Jason reluctantly allows himself to drift off, and whether by chance or direct correlation, mercifully doesn’t dream of ghosts.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/firefright)


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